


Blood On His Hands

by NerdInABlueBox



Category: Barry (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-12-25 17:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdInABlueBox/pseuds/NerdInABlueBox
Summary: In a hit gone wrong, Barry finds himself in need of assistance. He must rethink his obligations to the Chechens and those he cares for the most.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is probably not Canon Compliant exactly but it supposedly takes place within the events of season one, in which Barry still answers to Fuches and is already working for the Chechens.

It was a hit gone wrong.

Barry lay there, on the ground, reflecting on what had gone wrong. It was supposed to be a simple hit. Go in, take out the target, get out. Three simple actions that went wrong somewhere along the way. 

Barry supposed that it probably had to do with the nature of the hit. The Chechens had ordered a hit on “Hanz Yipman” and the name itself should have been a warning sign. Another was when they had refused to tell him the reasoning behind the hit. The third was probably when Fuches had told him to be careful, and Fuches never tells him to be careful.

He had entered the residence at 1900 hours, carefully sweeping the area, only to find that no one was in the home. It was overtly and suspiciously empty and quiet. He had circled around back, which is where he found the shed. The shed that had stairs, that had led down to the bunker, in which he found the drugs. Pounds upon pounds of cocaine, stacked one on top of the other, lined across the walls. There was a chair in the middle of the room containing a body; an unmoving body; the body of Hanz Yipman. It was too late that he realized that he had made a mistake. He felt something hit his head and the next he knew was black. 

…

When he came to, he reached the startling realization that it was now him in the chair, rather than Hanz. When he tried to stand up he realized his hands were tied behind him. Typical. He immediately started working on freeing them when three men walked into the room. 

“Who do you work for?” asked the First.

Barry didn’t answer, instead casing the area, trying to locate possible means for escape. Maybe a loose nail, a window, a kni-

He was hit in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. He couldn’t breath. Why couldn’t he breath? Oh, it was probably the hands around his throat.

“Let me ask you again,” said the First, “who do you work for?” 

Barry shook his head, warranting another punch to the stomach, and a release of the hands. The first man drew out a knife.

“It’s not everyday we have strangers walking into our base. And you certainly don’t look like our enemies, which is why I ask, who do you work for?” The knife was now against his throat.

Barry couldn’t determine where the accent from, but he suspected it to be European in origin. He shook his head again, and spat in the face of the first man. This angered him, although why would it not? At the nod of first man, the second man shoved Barry’s chair over, and the third began to mercilessly kick at Barry’s stomach. He tried to curl in on himself, but felt strong hands grasping his legs and stretching him out, leaving him more susceptible to the countless kicks, punches, and assaults on his body. Again he couldn’t breathe, this time it wasn’t because of hands around his neck, but rather damage he was sustaining to his ribs, stomach, and lungs. He felt something crack, then another. He needed something to focus on. He went back to working on his hand restraints, rather than struggle against the man holding his legs. He was almost there.

The kicking stopped and Barry gasped for breath, wincing at the same time. The first man’s face crept into Barry’s vision. It was sideways, why was that? Oh, he was on the ground. That’s right.

“Are you ready to talk now?” asked the man. 

Barry then began to wonder. Why did he protect the Chechens? They’ve done nothing for him. They had let Fuches go and he was just left doing their dirty work--for money of course--but the idea still confused him. Looking back at the man, Barry slowly nodded his head in compliance.

Satisfied, the first man instructed the others to lift Barry from the ground. He couldn’t help but cry out as they did so. His torso felt as if it was on fire. His arm hurt, he knew he had landed on it wrong and something certainly happened as it was pinned underneath the chair during all the kicking.

Now upright, the face of the first man looked and him, and asked the exact same question:

“Who do you work for?”

Barry knew that at this point there was no point in protecting them, but he needed to stall for time so that he could successfully escape. Time for the acting class to finally pay off. He opened his mouth to answer but coughed instead. All while working on his bindings, he lifted his head, making sure blood was trailing from his mouth. He began to speak:

“I work-” he coughed again. The next time he talked, he used as raspy and grovely a voice he could muster.

“I work for the ch-” he coughed again, and more vibrantly this time. It wasn’t hard to fake as he truly did feel as shitty as he currently sounded.

The first man sighed. He gestured at the second.

“Get him some water.” He returned to facing Barry. “Quite the drama queen, you are.”

“Thanks” was all Barry could cough out. He was almost there. Now all he needed was the perfect opportunity, and he suspected one was coming up. 

The second man returned with water and gave it to the first. The man approached Barry with the cup. He lifted Barry’s chin up so that he could drink, and right as the cup touched his lips, Barry shot a hand up and punched the man in the face. He followed this up with a head butt, of which completely knocked the first man unconscious. With that taken care of, all that was left was the other two men. Barry grasped at his side, preparing for what came next. 

The two men collided with Barry, slamming him to the ground. Again came the merciless assaults on Barry’s body, but this time he had an advantage. Arms, freedom, and the removal of one of the three men from the equation. After a strong hit to his stomach, Barry managed to maneuver his body into a position that gave him leverage to slam the second man’s face to the ground, also knocking him out.

One left. Barry locked eyes with the third man, who clearly wasn’t as enthusiastic about the interrogation as the other two. He put his arms up, in surrender, but Barry already had blood on his hands and darkness in his eyes. Barry walked up to him and took him out with one swift punch to the face. 

With the three men out of the equation, Barry took a second to look around at his handiwork. The pain in his chest was now overwhelming him and he was just now realizing that he couldn’t breathe very well, this accompanied with a sharp pain in the left side of his ribcage. He should take care of that. Later, not now. He had one thing left to do. He picked up the knife that was thrown to the corner. There could be no witnesses.

He emerged from the bunker/shed with blood on his hands, literally. He couldn’t breath. His head was pounding. All he needed was a nap, at that very moment, so he took that time to do so in the backyard of the empty house.

…

It was a hit gone wrong.

Barry lay there, on the ground, reflecting on what had gone wrong. It was supposed to be a simple hit. Go in, take out the target, get out. Three simple actions that went wrong somewhere along the way. 

He came to again. He didn’t know where he was, oh wait he did. He was in the backyard and he had just-

He tried to sit up but instead was met with an intense, hot pain all across his chest and torso. He couldn’t move without feeling pain of some sort flaring up. He assessed the damage:  
Head: hurts. Neck: eh. Shoulders: been better. Left arm: probably broken. Right arm: okay. Ribs: Probably broken, probably with some lung damage. Other internal structures: heavily bruised. Legs: Sore. In conclusion, he’s had worse. At least he wasn’t bleeding from the outside for once. He rolled over to his right side, careful not to move too much, but who was he kidding. Everything hurt; there was no way to avoid pain.

He considered calling Fuches, but he didn’t want Fuches risk being followed or worse. He came to the conclusion that he would just drive back to the hotel and rest up. Hopefully Fuches wouldn’t fuss too much. At the end of the day, Barry had technically done his job, and that’s all that should matter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the previous chapter. Uhhhh I don't even know where Barry was technically staying during the first season it looked like an apartment, maybe a hotel room, who knows. This is barely canon, it could potentially fit in somewhere. Who knows. *insert shrug emoji*

It was late at night when he entered the hotel room. He fumbled around for the lights. He couldn’t find the switch and gave up. Defeated, he stripped off his coat, shirt and pants and slipped into the stiff motel bed. He was out the minute he hit felt the sheets on his body.

Morning came too soon. Or what he guessed to be morning. His brain was still foggy and he instantly got a headache with the sunlight in his eyes from the curtains being slightly ajar. Barry fumbled for his phone. It was on his nightstand, charging from the night before. He forgot he had put it there before the mission. He squinted his eyes at the phone and they widened when he saw the time: 1:03 PM. He scanned his notifications. He was missing calls from Noho Hank, Fuches, and...Sally? Then he remembered. He had an acting class at noon today. He had missed it. _That’s a good chunk of money down the drain I guess._ He kept scanning. Another message from Fuches:

IM COMIN BY FOR A DEBRIEF AT 1.

Shit.

Barry tried to sit up, but tried too quickly. Pain lanced up his ribs and arm. Its intensity was so sudden and intense that he immediately passed out. 

_Barry…_

He felt the sunlight through his eyelids. 

_Barry..._

For just a moment, there was nothing on his mind. No pain, no stress, no nothing…

“Barry!”

His eyelids flew open. The pain from earlier returned. His headache was at full blast. His breaths came in shorter rounds. He couldn’t help but groan.

“Jesus Christ Barry, what happened to you?”

He tried to move again but remembered what happened the last time. Instead, he tried to focus on Fuches, who was dressed in his usual garb, looking as charmingly evil as usual.

“Barry, focus up kid.”

“I...I can’t.”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere.”

“Well that’s real fucking helpful isn’t it. I had come by to tell you that Hank and Goran were impressed with your work on Hanz and apparently his friends. They’re gonna pay us a bit more for the extra hits even.”

“That’s...Fuches that’s great now please get the fuck out of my room.”

“Now Barry, that’s not the right attitude we need here. Goran is considering hiring us full time.”

“Okay. Cool. Please leave.”

“What, no more-”

Fuches gestures in a poor imitation of Barry.”‘oooh I’m gonna be an actor, but no commercials, ‘cause I’m a Goddamn diva’”

“Fuches I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Anyways. Goran gave us another hit. Tonight. At the pier. Another informant is running their mouth so they have to go.”

Barry begins to have trouble focusing on any of the shit Fuches is saying. His headache is building up. His arm begins to ache more. Every breath is agony.

“I can’t do the ...hit….Fuches.”

“Why not? It’s easy money!”

“Because I’m hurt. From yesterday. Hank sent me into a fucking trap.”

“Well yeah but you killed them all anyway. That’s the Barry I know.”

“Fuches-”

“And what are you still doing in bed?”

“Fuches I’m-”

Fuches tries to sit Barry up. Bad idea. Barry feels a shift in his ribs and lets out a stifled scream. 

“Jesus Barry what-”

Barry uses his good arm to grip his stomach. He squeezes is eyes shut, about to pass out again. Maybe he does, because when he opens them Fuches is on the phone. He hears half of the conversation.

“Yes, Hank, a medic. You sent Barry into a trap you might as well heal him up. See him yourself no why the fuck would I-Oh you’re the medic? Where’d you get your training? Chechnya medicine school of medicine, that doesn’t sound very? Oh prestigious you say?”

Fuches catches sight of Barry, whose eyes are now fully open and looking around.

“Alright come on over then. I’ll text you the address.” 

Fuches hangs up the phone and walks over to Barry. He reaches over to the night stand and hands Barry an ice pack.

“I’m sure this’ll help.”

Barry slowly grabs the pack. Not sure exactly where to put it, he puts it to his head. 

There is a knock at the door. _That was fast_. Fuches walks over to the door. After looking through the peephole he seems satisfied enough to let in whoever is on the other side of the door. That person turned out to be Hank.

“Barrryyy I’m so glad to see you. All is well, no?”

Barry is still laying down on the bed, the covers drawn over his body, the ice pack long melted. His face features a black eye, cut nose, and bruises galore.

“Okay so Fuches tells me that’s a no, so I will fix you up okay?”

Barry looks to Fuches, an eyebrow raised. He’s too tired to speak; too worn out to react in any way.

“Don’t worry, Barry, he has a degree-”

Hank shakes his head hard.

“He has a...training in theeeee Chechnyaaaaan…Medicine…”

Hank follows Fuches line of sight, as if leading him to the glorious answer.

“School of Medicine.”

Hank nods his head in agreement. Noho Hank pulls a first aid kit, seemingly out of nowhere. He pulls out a roll of gauze, another roll of gauze, some rubbing alcohol, and more objects Barry can’t see.

“Okay Barry, tell me, Nurse Noho Hank, what the men did to you.”

“Hank there’s no fucking way I’m calling you that.” says Barry.

“Barry…” says Fuches. He glares at Barry who sighs, reluctantly.

“They tied me up. Punched me in the ribs and stuff. Did something to my arm. Stuff like that. I got hit in the head too.”

“Your arm you say?”

Hank walks over to Barry and pulls back the covers. He pulls Barry’s arm from its resting place, roughly.

“Ah! Fuck- stop it!” Barry winces. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip.

“Ooh this might be broken” says Hank, who is waving Barry’s arm up and down. 

“Fuck- Yea no shit, Hank!”

Hank releases Barry’s arm. Barry immediately curls into it, still trying not to groan but ultimately failing. He moves on and begins to probe Barry’s ribs. 

“Broken, broken, probably broken? Oh wait those aren’t broken.” As if on cue, Hank presses harder, shifting what was probably a broken rib.

“Arg! Fuck!”

“Ah yes. That was broken. Cool.”

Hank did not know what he was doing, clearly. He holds up three fingers.

“How many am I holding now?”

“Uh, three.”

“Ok good, that means your brain is ok.”

Hank pulls out a roll of gauze and begins to wrap.

\---

Bandages were everywhere. His stomach, his chest, his head, his arm...his arm? There was a sling around it as well. The room was empty now. It seems like Fuches and Hank had left. Barry fumbled around until he grabbed ahold of his phone. He looked to his text messages. 

8 missed calls from Sally. 3 messages. They read:

HHEY WHERE ARE YOU

YOUR LATE TO CLASS

COUSINEAU IS PISSED

As if on queue, his phone rang. It was Sally. Barry tentatively answered it.

“Hello?”

“Barry thank God. Why’d you miss class?”

“Uhhh I’m fine I just overslept.”

“Overslept to 6pm?”

“6pm?” Barry pulled the phone away from his ear and saw that it was, in fact, 6pm. 

“I was, uh, really tired.”

“Alright well we just got assigned new scenes and you’re my new scene partner. I’m gonna come by so we can run through some lines.”

_Read through some lines? Oh wait shit-_

“No!”

“No? Why not?”

“I uh, I can’t?”

“Barry what’s going on?”

There was a long pause. What’s he supposed to tell her? _Oh by the way, Sally. I’m a hitman and I got fucking destroyed by some Russian operatives because I walked into a trap. Whoops._ No. He cannot say that. That would not be good. That would be, in fact, bad. Without thinking, Barry spoke, “I was uh hit by a… car?” _Shit! That was not the right excuse._

“What?! Are you in the hospital?”

“Uh no I’m in my room.”

“Did you go to the hospital.”

“Yeah sure. Just- can we run through the lines tomorrow or something?”

“Yeah of course, don’t worry about it. Feel better Barry. Maybe the class and I can come by-”

He hangs up then. Did she say something at the end? Probably not. That was a problem for another day. He closes his eyes once more.

 


End file.
